


Choices

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: AU, Boxing, Drug Use (Mentioned), Fluff, Friendship, Loneliness, M/M, Marcus' Backstory, Original Character(s), Pining, Pre-Slash, Racism (mentioned), Romance, may have more chapters later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:19:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus has a decision to make, and Sherlock feels lonely.</p><p>(Initially inspired by the short film Standing8, starring Jon Michael Hill, then grew into something else.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choices

Sherlock remembered what he’d seen in the drawer at Marcus’ apartment, back when he and Joan had searched it for evidence early on in their acquaintance. They hadn’t found anything of use, anything to find the person trying to frame Marcus, but Sherlock had found something else.

He’d been on his knees by Marcus’ bed, looking around, utterly dumbfounded by the tidiness of the place. Even Marcus’ sock draw was immaculate. Utterly ridiculous, and somewhat admirable. Sherlock was pondering the fact that many psychopaths had been found to have immaculate homes, and imagining what capacity Marcus would have as a serial killer. It was a preposterous line of thought, born of boredom; Marcus was one of the best men he knew, even if he hadn’t known him very well at that stage.

He had lifted up the edge of the doona hanging over the edge of the bed, and discovered a small set of two draws, sitting against the wall beneath the head of the bed. He had pulled it out and, frowning, opened the first draw.

It was filled with photographs- polaroids, to be precise. Of Marcus.

Sherlock took one out and stared at it. It was Marcus, shirtless, holding two gloved hands before his face, knees bent in a typical boxer’s pose. He was drenched with sweat, head bowed, eyes raised in a raw expression of aggression. His right eye was swollen with a fresh black eye, made darker by the heavy shadows thrown on him by the overhead lighting; a boxing ring was visible behind him, and a crowd behind that. A referee in a striped shirt was gesturing violently, a whistle at his mouth.

Another photo showed Marcus, arms raised above his head in victory, his tattoo- Lonesome, written in cursive letters- displayed across the curving muscles on his left arm. He was grinning viciously, eyes squeezed closed- Sherlock imagined the roar of the crowd, the smell of sweat and violence and blood, the euphoria of it all. There was a man at Marcus’ feet, pressing his bloodied forearm against his broken nose, legs folded under him. A companion to piece to the first photograph, Sherlock imagined.

Other photographs showed Marcus in shorts, training, lying on benches and lifting weights, tumbling on mats, wrestling with other men. He was smiling in all the photographs, but his figure was lean and hungry, not as refined and muscular as it was now. He was young. Something suggested to Sherlock that this boxing profession had been his only breadwinning means.

Andre Bell featured in a few of the photographs, but never in boxing attire. Marcus was clearly the sibling with the affinity for violence in the ring, while Andre was the brother who preferred his violence come from gangs.

Another man frequented a few of the photographs, Sherlock had noted; a blonde man, handsome, with a strong jaw and smooth white skin. He was a boxer too, and wore a red silk hood with black shorts. Many of the photos showed him and Marcus sitting together, fighting together, arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing. Friends, Sherlock supposed. He considered that this possibly wasn’t any of his business, but then decided that a clue could be found anywhere in this apartment. Marcus’ framer needed to be caught.

Sherlock replaced the photographs he’d taken out, and then moved onto the second draw. There was only one photograph in there. Sherlock took it out, and knew he’d crossed a line.

It was Marcus kissing the blonde boxer.

They were both grinning, smiling around each other’s mouths. Marcus, shorter than him, had his hands on the man’s waist, while pale arms were draped over Marcus’ shoulders, skin and clothes made simultaneously bright and murky by the polaroid’s quality. The rest of the photo was dark, as if they were standing below a streetlight.

They looked happy. More than that, they looked… content. They looked poor, badly dressed, and Marcus had a bandaged wrist, but Sherlock recognised that kind of bliss. He’d known it while in love with Irene.

Sherlock had put it back and sighed. This blonde man wasn’t just a friend, then. And he now had a dilemma.

He’d taken his phone out of his pocket, and dialled. Marcus had picked up his phone on the first ring.

_"’Ey, you found anythin’?”_

Sherlock paused. “I have found something, Detective. I hesitate to ask, but I need to eliminate all possibilities.”

Marcus was silent for a while.

_“The photos. Under my bed.”_

“Yes.” Marcus was quiet again, and Sherlock felt an unexpected swell of nervousness. “I assume you’d have removed them if you wanted them kept secret. I don’t wish to intrude, but-”

 _“It ain’t your fault, Holmes.”_ Marcus sighed heavily. _“Don’t worry.”_

Sherlock nodded. “Is he pertinent to the investigation? Could he be, in any way, connected to this frame-up of you?” He doubted this man would be; the photos were old, after all. But Marcus’ past was, likely, the motivation for this framing job.

Marcus laughed. It was a sad laugh. He’d never come out to anyone at the precinct, and his private life was, evidently, something he held close. Sherlock didn’t enjoy being put in this position, or having to put Marcus in this position.

_“I dunno what happened to him. Think he got married.”_

Sherlock looked down at the photo. He could hear pain in Marcus’ voice. There was a story here. “Would he have cause to want to incriminate you?”

 _“Nah.”_ Marcus’ voice became dry. _“He was the one who cheated on me, so. I’d be the one lookin’ to get even.”_

Sherlock paused. “My condolences.”

Marcus laughed. _“’Ey, it happened a long time ago, a’ight? Don’t dwell on it. You find anythin’ else, you call, yeah?”_

“Of course. And, Marcus?”

_“Yeah?”_

_I’m sorry,_  Sherlock thought, _you deserve better._

“…Never mind.”

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock sat back in his chair, staring ahead, the events of that day replaying with prefect clarity in his mind. He and Marcus had never spoken of that blonde man again, but he’d have liked to. He’d have liked to hold Marcus the way Marcus had been held in that photograph; embraced, kissed, adored. He told himself he’d never hurt Marcus the way this stranger had.

He was beginning to become fascinated with the Detective. Physically, Marcus had more than enough appeal- he was perfectly formed, with a slender waist and a smooth form, a broad chest and strong shoulders. He obviously worked very hard to look as good as he did, and yet he carried himself with a humble sense of self-accomplishment. He wasn’t looking for anyone else’s approval. He was confident, and it showed in the way he walked and dressed, but he wasn’t arrogant.

Sherlock sighed, and tapped the arm of his chair. The fire burned down slowly in front of him, smouldering, and he thought of the snow outside. It brought back memories of the year previous, when he and Marcus had taken a case together, and discovered the genetically modified Quagga. A lot had changed since then. Sherlock had overdosed, and risen again from the ashes- with no thanks to his father, who had visited him and been as much help as Oscar himself.

His sobriety was, once again, established, but his relapse had left him with a sense of fragility and vulnerability. It was persistent. He had been content, before, with Joan and the precinct- his relationships with Gregson and Marcus had been close, but at arm’s length, and Joan had been becoming more of her own person. Now, his isolationist tendencies seemed less and less comfortable, and the empty Brownstone was no longer inviting, no longer a beacon calling for any number of experiments or prostitutes or outlandish uses of the space.

It felt lonely.

He’d felt this way after Irene, before Kitty, and in various degrees throughout his life, usually with every bout of depression tied in to a relapse.

He wanted to be close to someone, and the memory of Moriarty just made him afraid. He knew he’d give in to her, but he didn’t want that. He didn’t want her poisonous intellect and her devious ways, her beautiful body and all-knowing smirk. He wanted Marcus’ good nature and easy laughter, his strong hands, and his steadfast belief in what was right and good in the world.

The flames flickered. He stared at them, and imagined. What would it be like to have Marcus in such a way? To be with him? Sherlock hadn’t been with anyone for a very, very long time.

He thought of the blonde boxer. He thought of the pain in Marcus’ voice on the phone that day, and the number of times Marcus had walked into the precinct with defeat spelled out in his shoulders and tired face, because yet another heterosexual relationship or one-night stand had ended badly. He was hiding who he really was. Sherlock thought that was criminally unfair. Marcus deserved better. Sherlock wasn’t sure he could provide that, but he could hope.

He stood, with a loud sigh, and decided he’d have to distract himself somehow. This wouldn’t do.

 

 

***

 

 

Marcus turned the doorknob to Gregson’s office, mind in two or three places at once. He had piles of paperwork to finish, and a current case to be prioritising as well. They had a few leads, and a few suspects, but nothing concrete- it wasn’t off to a good start.

“You wanted to see me, Cap’n…?” He trailed off, shocked. Captain Gregson was sitting in his chair, and Chief McMillan, head of the Department, was seated on the other side of the desk, turning around in his chair to look at Marcus. Panic fluttered in his stomach for a flash, and he wondered what he’d done. This was either seriously good, or seriously bad.

“Yeah, close the door.” Gregson gestured.

Marcus did as he said, consciously aware of his spine straightening, posture correcting itself in front of McMillan, who was standing. Gregson didn’t seem upset.

When he turned back, McMillan had stepped forward, a hand extended. He was a tall man, and had been strong in his youth, that strength still present but was now more wiry, more elegant. His hair was a slate grey and his face was drill instructor hard. “Good to meet you, Detective. I’ve heard good things.”

“You too, sir. And, thank you.” Dumbfounded, but refusing to let it show, Marcus shook his hand. McMillan’s hand dwarfed his; it was a problem Marcus had long learned to deal with, being smaller than most men. He spread his hand wide and returned the firmness of the handshake. It was an important kind of posturing, among cops.

“Have a seat.” McMillan gestured as he himself sat.

Marcus met Gregson’s eyes as he sat. Gregson gave the briefest smile, and Marcus felt cautious hope. Maybe this was a good thing. Still, he straightened his tie nervously.

“There’s no need to be nervous, Detective.” McMillan laughed.

“Just wonderin’ what’s goin’ on, sir.” Marcus smiled, resisting the urge to flatten his accent like he’d done as a kid, around principals and teachers who didn’t look kindly on black kids who were- how was it they’d put it? Ah, yes. Ghetto.

McMillan nodded slowly. “You do some good work. The more I found out, the more necessary this meeting seemed to be.”

Marcus nodded and thanked him again.

Apparently not one to stand on ceremony, McMillan asked, “How would you feel about a promotion?”

Marcus hadn’t expected that, cautious hope or not. He looked at Gregson, lost.

Silence fell for a long while, and eventually Marcus opened his mouth and slowly said, “To… To Sergeant?”

“If you were any level lower than First Grade, I’d just move you up a notch on the Detective ladder, but the Captain and I are both of the opinion you’re both deserving and capable of succeeding your current rank.” McMillan smiled widely, and gave another throaty laugh. “Though you’ll still have to pass the exam, of course.”

“I…” Marcus looked between them both, and then swallowed hard. Excitement was blooming beneath his ribcage, making his chest tight. He’d dreamed of this day for a long time, yet… something about this made him panic. “Thank you, sir.”

“We’ll give you time to think about it, of course.” McMillan said, just as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, and raised his eyebrows at the screen. “Ah. Sorry about the terrible timing, but I’ve got to go now.” He stood. Gregson and Marcus stood too.

McMillan held out a hand again. Marcus hesitated before he shook it, feeling as if he was somehow making this a done deal by doing so.

“Thank you, sir.” He said again.

McMillan nodded, smiling. “You deserve it, Detective.” Then, he turned to Gregson, raising a hand in farewell. “See you later, Tommy. Keep up the good work!”

Gregson nodded. “See you.”

McMillan closed the door behind him, and Marcus stood, dumbfounded. The panic in him was growing. Jesus. What a decision to make.

“You gonna take it?” Gregson asked, coming out from behind the desk, crossing his arms, grinning excitedly.

“Uh,” Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. “I… I dunno.”

Gregson frowned. “Why not?”

“I… I’m kinda happy with the way things are? And it’s not like I need the money. But, shit,” He laughed helplessly. “, how could I turn it down?”

“Okay, okay. Come on.” Gregson put a hand on his shoulder. “The exam’s not for a month or so. You can make up your mind in the meantime.”

Marcus sighed, relieved. He had time. “Right.”

“Hey, if nothing else, it’s a compliment.”

“Yeah.” Marcus grinned. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Gregson patted his shoulder. “Drinks are on me tonight, if you’re free.”

 

 

***

 

 

Sherlock sat in one of the NYPD’ vacant interview rooms, reviewing boxes upon boxes of cold cases, none of them requiring much attention or holding his interest.

What was holding his interest, however, was seeing Chief McMillan leave Captain Gregson’s office. Sherlock let the pages of the folder in front of him slip slowly out of his fingers as he watched the man stride from the building, giving people passing smiles. It was obviously a positive visit. Sherlock imagined it had to do with a promotion of some kind; this was the season for switching of positions and roles. Right before an election. Lots of reshuffling of personnel and authority.

Wondering whether Captain Gregson was finally being relocated, Sherlock turned his attention to the Captain’s office, already calculating how he and Joan would be affected by such a move. Provided, of course, that Gregson accepted such a change.

He went still, however, when he saw the unmistakable figure of Marcus through the windows into Gregson’s office.

He swallowed thickly, and looked down at the folder in front of him, unable to remember what he’d been reading about. Was he to lose Marcus? On one hand, he would no longer be tempted with dreams of pursuing a relationship he was mostly assured would fail, but he would also lose to opportunity to ever choose to approach Marcus about it. He would be losing a friend.

He looked up again, as Marcus left the office. His fellow Detectives and Officers gave him wide smiles, a few clapping him on the shoulder and shaking his hand in congratulations, but he seemed nervous, and not all happy with the opportunity before him. Sherlock was delighted, and without shame at the selfishness of the emotion. Perhaps he’d get to keep Marcus after all.

He watched as Marcus fled the building, grabbing his effects off his desk.

Sherlock packed up the cold cases and followed him.

 

 

***

 

 

Marcus got back to his apartment, closing the door behind him, finding a beer and cracking it open, taking a pull. He didn’t feel like going to gym tonight. He felt like having a drink and getting down to thinking about this. If he tried to distract himself, he’d just stew.

He sat at his bench, digging the heels of his hands into his forehead.

The silence of his apartment nagged him, but his head whirled around all the reasons he couldn’t leave, without settling on anything specific, and kept returning to the fact that a promotion was a big thing. He might’ve been single, childless, and in a reasonably priced apartment, but this was the real world; money was money, and more of it would be nice.

But being a Detective- it was what he did, it was what he was. He was meant for the field, he was meant to be amongst it all, not sitting at a desk and reading about it, assigning people to cases and being in a management role. It wouldn’t be that entirely, but still.

And what about Joan? What about Sherlock? This was a unique arrangement he had with them, and he loved it. They’d nearly lost it, nearly lost each other, when Sherlock relapsed and disappeared for months, but now they were back together again. He didn’t want to lose them.

More than that… he didn’t want to lose Sherlock.

He took another pull from his beer. He remembered what Sherlock had been like after Oscar; he’d been another person entirely. Listless. Empty. Cold.

When Sherlock had started to come back to himself, rebuild himself again, Marcus’ secret attraction to him had grown along with the epiphany that he wanted to protect Sherlock. From himself. He wanted to keep him safe, kiss him, be the one Sherlock came to in the middle of the night when he wanted to slide a syringe under his skin and destroy himself all over again.

Marcus knew he’d never have the guts to say anything, so working with Sherlock was the closest he would ever get. It was all he had, and he couldn’t throw it away for a desk job.

But, by the same token… turning a promotion down just because of a crush he’d never follow through on? That was pathetic.

He took another drink, put his beer down on the bench, massaged his forehead with his knuckles, tonguing his cheek and glaring at the beer label.

There was knock on his door. He jumped.

“Who is it?”

“Sherlock,” The yelled reply came. “I apologise for coming to your home, but I thought you’d want to speak here as opposed to the precinct.”

Marcus sat in dumbfounded silence. The universe obviously hated him.

“If this is a bad time, I can come back later.” Sherlock continued through the door.

Marcus sighed, and got down off the stool. Goddamnit. He opened the door, beer still in hand, and let Sherlock in. “Why the hell’re you here, Holmes?”

Sherlock held forward a six pack of beer. Marcus stared at it.

“Alcohol is a suitable congratulatory present for someone just presented with the opportunity for promotion, no?” Sherlock glanced at the beer already in his hand. “Though I see I may be a bit late.”

Marcus took it after a pause. “Thanks. I guess. How’d you know?”

“I believe the entire Department knows.”

Marcus sighed and put it down on his bench. He took a pull from his beer, leaned against the counter. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Sherlock bounced impatiently on his heels, in his childishly endearingly way. “Will you take it?”

“I dunno.” Marcus tried to keep the harsh edge from his voice, not entirely succeeding. If there was one person he didn’t want to talk about this with, it was Sherlock.

“Why refuse it?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“Guess I’m… happy. At the moment.” Not entirely a lie.

Sherlock nodded, pursing his lips. Marcus got the feeling Sherlock sensed the omission in his tone.

“Why’re you here, again?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I… assumed you might wish to discuss this. You seemed somewhat conflicted at the precinct.”

“Okay. Sure. But why’re you here? In my place? We coulda met at a bar or somethin’.” Marcus regretted the words instantly; Sherlock had been avoiding places like that, with the overly cautious paranoia of a newly sober addict. “Or… you know. A café.”

Sherlock smiled wanly. He had caught the faux pas.

“Anyway. About the promotion. I’m happy bein’ in the midst of it all, y’know?” Marcus continued, feeling the need to cover his blunder. “With Joan, and the Cap’n, and… you, and…” He shrugged. “Well, I dunno. Maybe not much would change if I became a Sergeant.”

“Well, Joan and I would need to find another competent and skilled Detective, but that’s hardly relevant to your decision.”

Marcus laughed.

“Do you want to take the promotion?”

That stumped Marcus. He crossed his arms and considered his beer bottle for a few seconds.

“…Took me a long time to get to Detective, y’know. Kept bein’ passed up for promotion, no matter how damn hard I worked. Might sound like I’m just whinin’, but…” He sighed. “…truth is, it ain’t easy bein’ a black guy sometimes.”

Sherlock was silent, and Marcus looked up to see a depth of understanding in his eyes he hadn’t expected.

“So, yeah.” He continued. “I wanna take it. I really do.”

“Then do.” Sherlock suggested quietly.

Marcus looked away from him. Him, the main reason he was having such a hard time making this decision. “I’ll think ‘bout it.”

“If it helps…” Sherlock hesitated. He fidgeted, tapping a silent pattern on his thigh, before nodding to himself, committing to whatever he was about to say. “I don’t imagine there’s a better policeman for the job. So, regardless of status… you are an exceptional investigator. And a good man. Whether you choose to accept or deny this promotion, you’ll always have that.”

Marcus stared at him, stunned. That was the thing about Sherlock. He told the truth like no one else, and he meant every word he said.

Sherlock nodded to him, meeting his gaze. “I’ll leave you to think on that. I hope you,” He gestured, seeming nervous. “I hope you enjoy the beer. I’m rather inexperienced in that field, so.” He smiled hopefully, and hesitated as if he had more to say, but instead turned promptly on his heel, and left.

Marcus didn't stop him from leaving. He didn't move at all, wasn't sure he could. His cheeks were hot, his stomach was tight, and he took a long, deep breath in the silence of his home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
